


what stays and what fades away

by nishtabel



Series: no light, no light [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Plugs, Anal Sex, D/s play, Edging, M/M, Mild Electrocution, Restraints, Topping from the Bottom, collaring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26029729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: Claude’s hand wraps easily around the chain of Dimitri’s leash, looping thin, metal links around his palm. The pressure of it—the sharp tug of the leash against his collar—sparks a low rumble of Thoron, arcing down Dimitri’s spine and settling behind his navel. His cock twitches within the tight confines of his leather trousers and he shudders.“Follow me,” Claude says, and Dimitri does.Or: Five years after Dimitri’s capture, he and Claude have fallen into something resemblinglove.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Series: no light, no light [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889449
Comments: 6
Kudos: 104





	what stays and what fades away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [outofthesun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outofthesun/gifts).



> while it’s not necessary to enjoy this fic, i strongly recommend you read “[no light, no light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20610611)” first! the context will make much more sense if you do 😇
> 
> thank you to @[_outofthesun_](https://twitter.com/_outofthesun_) for commissioning me for this piece! i’ve been wanting to revisit this universe for a while, and i’m so thankful you gave me the opportunity to do so 💕 i hope you enjoy!

Even after five years, Dimitri wears Claude’s collar.

The rush of Thoron has lessened, over time; Claude says that it’s because the etching has worn down, but Dimitri suspects that it’s the _intent_ that’s changed. Rather than a sharp surge of electricity and the lingering, crisp taste of ozone, Dimitri now feels a full-body buzz, warming him from his wrists to his toes and buzzing in the back of his skull. It’s all-encompassing, bright where it sizzles behind his eyelids, but it doesn’t _hurt_ , doesn’t bring him to his knees like it used to. Instead, when Claude tugs on the chain—clasped still at the front of Dimitri’s collar—Dimitri’s body lights with a gentle hum, hot where it settles in his stomach.

It is, of course, no longer a punishment.

Perhaps they keep it on for theatrics; Dimitri is still known as the _Wild Boar_ , the lunatic prince whom Claude had captured at the doomed Battle of Gronder. If Dimitri has learned nothing else about Claude, it’s that he relishes performances—and Dimitri, in more ways than one, is one that never stops.

After five years, they still wake together. They dress together, and they eat together. Dimitri’s collar remains clasped, lined now with supple leather and the hint of white fur. The shackles that ring his wrists and ankles are little more than glorified circlets, thick and skin-warm where they settle against the cuff of his hands. The weight of them remains familiar, as does the crest of Riegan that sits imprinted on the delicate curve of each one.

Dimitri is Claude’s shadow and his guard, and, while few people know it, his counsel. He steals books from the library—“It’s not _stealing_ if I give them to you, Dima,” Claude reminds him—and reads them by candlelight, dozing off to the soft sounds of Claude’s snoring. He studies maps and trade routes, old Almyran philosophy and their complicated currency. He reads about scimitars and crossbows, huge, inhuman pikemen who descend, they say, from the mountains, and the children’s fairy tales on which Claude was raised. He learns the language and their customs, and when Claude is spoken to, always rudely, always presumptively—oh, how Dimitri loves to reply in perfect, answering Almyran, lips curved so pleasantly, so dangerously around the words.

“Dimitri,” Claude says, catching Dimitri’s unfocused eye. “Are you still with us?”

Dimitri’s head turns pleasantly towards Claude’s voice, blinking slowly in acknowledgment. His long, messy braid slips over one shoulder as he replies, “Yes, your Majesty.”

Claude’s face twists at the title, always uncomfortable with endearments—and it _is_ an endearment, murmured hot between the sheets, at the apex of Claude’s thighs, against the subtle swell of his cock. Dimitri calls Claude _your Majesty_ between morning kisses and late-night bites against his collarbone, and each time, Claude trembles.

For now, Claude simply nods. “Thank you, Dimitri,” he says, and turns back to his visiting diplomat. “My apologies, Sir Langrid. As you were.”

Sir Langrid nods and continues, voice a low drone. Dimitri feels his mind begin to wander, the diplomat’s words little more than white noise that tingles at the base of his skull. 

He thinks, of course, of Claude: of the way his hand lays idly on the arm of his chair, fingers clasped loosely around the chain of Dimitri’s leash; of the way his foot taps lightly on the floor, clearly bored and unimpressed; of the way Claude’s eyes never wander, still focused straight ahead at Sir Langrid as he speaks. He thinks of Claude’s unwavering attention, the ease with which he sets his mind to tasks. He thinks of Claude’s furrowed brow and his tapping fingers, and the quill that scratches across the page. 

(Claude writes with his left hand, today; tomorrow, he will switch to his right. When Dimitri had first asked about it—“I thought you were left-handed,” he’d said, curious—Claude had replied, “I never want my enemy to know which hand to watch. And they can’t watch both.”)

Dimitri watches with mild awe as Sir Langrid trembles and shakes before Claude, fingers shivering even as his shoulders remain taut and square. How far they have come, he thinks: Claude is no longer an “upstart” or a “usurper,” but instead the Crown King of Almyra, First of his Name, Breaker of the Alliance and Friend of the Flame Emperor. He wears his full beard, trimmed close with Dimitri’s help, and decorates it with bells and oils and pigment. His hair remains cropped short, still wavy and unruly, but the braid that dangles from his temple is long, tied with gold ribbon and decorated with a charm of his crest. He dresses like a king, as well: all bright silks and exquisite furs, hand-woven by deft fingers and dyed with only the finest of inks. He has cultivated his image well, and when others visit—no matter their place or standing or noble status—Claude makes sure that they recognize his work.

The meeting draws to an end before too long, with Dimitri managing to look aware enough to keep from drooling through his fingers. When Claude stands, the little bells at his waist chime; Sir Langrid bows his head. Dimitri’s chair scrapes against the stone floor as he stands. He moves much more silently, but only by the grace of Claude’s own tailors: they outfit him with dark leather and loose furs, dressed in the style of Faerghus but the colors of Almyra. Sir Langrid’s lip curls as his eyes remain trained on the table. While Claude may trust Dimitri, Claude’s subjects never will; they see not who he _is_ , but who he _was_ : the crown prince of Faerghus, gone mad with the ghosts of the dead. He remains, in the eyes of Claude’s peers, an unpredictable threat.

“Thank you, Sir Langrid,” says Claude, all tight formality. “You were most kind to visit us during the height of our summer. Please know that we appreciate it, as well as the work you do: you will find your quarters prepared and a cool bath drawn for yourself and your wife.”

Sir Langrid, for all of his haughty airs, bows deeply and graciously, one hand on the decorative sword at his belt. “It is my honor,” he says, lowly and with great respect, “to serve the King of Almyra.”

Claude’s lips twist in a smile, self-deprecating and capricious. It’s gone by the time Sir Langrid straightens. “You’re dismissed,” Claude says, wafting the ambassador’s words away with an uncaring hand.

Sir Langrid scuttles from the room with another hasty bow to Claude and, then, two nods at the guards who hold open the door. Once the door shuts tightly behind him, Claude turns to Dimitri.

“You’ve embarrassed me,” he says without preamble. “You looked more like a tamed puppy than my lapdog, Dimitri.”

Dimitri does not bow; instead, he hangs his head and glances to the side. Claude’s words are harsh, but they are mostly for show, and heat begins to build in his gut. “My apologies,” he says, and finds that he means it. He doubts Sir Langrid noticed—few ever look at Dimitri, in his dark leathers and furred, cloaked mantle, and see anything more than a rabid cur—but he regrets that he upset Claude’s performance. “How should I apologize, your Majesty?”

Claude snarls, a little too rough and a little too deep to be fully angry. Dimitri imagines the weight of Claude’s cock in his mouth, how it would feel stuffed firmly down his throat. The way it would smell, with Dimitri’s nose buried in the riotous, oiled curls at the root. He sways, just a bit, as Claude snaps, “We will not discuss this here, Dimitri. We’re going back to my rooms.”

Claude’s hand wraps easily around the chain of Dimitri’s leash, looping thin, metal links around his palm. The pressure of it—the sharp tug of the leash against his collar—sparks a low rumble of Thoron, arcing down Dimitri’s spine and settling behind his navel. His cock twitches within the tight confines of his leather trousers and he shudders.

“Follow me,” Claude says, and Dimitri does.

The walk to Claude’s bedroom is a short one, but fraught with stairs and turns and unlit lanterns. Claude leads him by the leash wrapped tightly around his hand, tugging just enough to catch Dimitri’s breath, shy of sparking electricity: instead, the cool metal of his collar rubs unyielding against his throat, each cold shock like a single hair plucked. Dimitri follows him like an eager dog, tail between his legs but face alight, worried for the punishment yet still desperate for touch. When they reach Claude’s room— _their_ room—Dimitri shuffles in behind Claude, wrists already bound together in front of his lap.

“You’ve been very bad,” says Claude, voice low and dangerous. “Getting distracted in a meeting like that—so disrespectful, Dimitri.”

The threat hangs unsaid between them, charged with the electricity that dances just below Dimitri’s collar. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, hoarse not from shame but from simple disuse. “I was—”

“I didn’t ask,” Claude says, “for excuses.” He’s begun to pace, tugging Dimitri along with him. His boots fall heavy on the carpeted stone. “You’ve made a fool of me, Dimitri. People will think my lapdog has gone soft.” 

Claude curls his fist and electricity buzzes, sharp and bright, against the base of Dimitri’s skull. Dimitri feels his mouth water, eyes rolling back momentarily as he adjusts to the sensation. The sparks lick fire into his veins for as long as Claude holds the leash taut, setting him alight and shuddering beneath Claude’s gaze. Dimitri moves to speak, opening his mouth in a silent gasp, but all that drips from his lips is spit.

The chain goes lax, just for a moment. Electricity fades from Dimitri’s skin, nothing but an itching memory. “I will have to punish you,” Claude decides aloud, as though he hadn’t decided silently the moment he caught Dimitri’s eye wandering. “You must be reminded.” He tuts and leads Dimitri to the bed, fastening the leash to a notch in the left post. “Stay here while I fetch my tools, Dimitri.”

Dimitri twitches into place, sinking to his knees before Claude can ask him to do so. It’s muscle memory, now; the quiet, metallic sound of his leash latching onto the bed has him halfway under already, limbs buzzing with the remnants of Claude’s control. He closes his eye and listens to Claude step away, following his footsteps around the room as he turns from one closet to another, from chest to quiet drawer. When at last Claude returns, he’s drifting comfortably on the weight of his own thoughts, mind scattered between sensation and anticipation while his cock thickens eagerly between his legs.

“I didn’t tell you to kneel,” Claude says, but he doesn’t sound upset. If anything, he sounds proud; Dimitri allows himself a smile, soft and subtle. “Good boy.”

Claude’s hand rests on Dimitri’s chin, forcing Dimitri’s eye open. When their gazes lock, Dimitri swallows, unmoored against the piercing green of Claude’s eyes. They’re bright, severe, ringed with smudged kohl and flecked with delicate gold. Claude is searching him, staring through the blank expanse of Dimitri’s wide eye as though he could decipher the thoughts within.

“Up,” he says at last, turning his back. “You seem eager to begin.”

“Yes,” Dimitri says simply, because it isn’t a secret between them. Claude does this as much for Dimitri’s benefit as he does for his own. “Where would you have me, sir?”

Claude scoffs, derisive and cruel. Dimitri’s blood sings. “You call me _Master_ ,” he says, and taps the bed. “Now, undress and get on the bed.”

Dimitri undresses and gets on the bed. With his back flat against the mattress, plush blankets threatening to consume him, he blinks up at Claude. When Claude merely cocks an eyebrow, Dimitri slowly, slowly raises his arms, positioning them above his head and drawing his golden shackles together with a single, bright chime.

Claude nods, almost satisfied. “Good boy,” he says again, and Dimitri’s breath sits heavy in his chest. His cock hangs half-hard between his thighs, already beginning to jut from the wild thatch of curls. Before, when this had happened—all those years ago, full winters and half a delusion away—Dimitri had thought to be embarrassed, somewhere in the deep, animal recesses of his mind: men weren’t aroused by the rough handling of their captor, by the callused hand that smacked of failure. And yet, there Dimitri had kneeled, so many years ago, brought to his knees with a blinding pulse of magic and a gentle hand at his jaw. If he’s being honest, he’d been rent undone the moment Claude had touched his face. _I’m sorry_ had never sounded so much like _I love you_.

Claude reappears with what has quickly become his favorite toy—a thick plug carved from sealed, dark wood. Dimitri shudders to lay eyes on it, his cock now smearing precum against his belly, and his hole gives a futile clench at the thought of Claude working it inside of him.

“Dimitri,” Claude says, so very serious, “I’m going to tie your wrists to the headboard, work you open on my fingers, stuff you full, and ride you until you cry. You will not come until instructed. You will not touch me. You will not fuck me. I am going to _use you_ , Dima, and you are going to lie there and take it like the toy you are.” His eyes are sharp where they examine Dimitri’s face, deep brown that melts hot against his temples, the curve of his nose. Claude’s gaze settles on Dimitri’s mouth, already half-parted and slick with eager spit. “Do you understand?” he asks, before adding, “Do you think this is suitable punishment?” _Is this okay?_

Dimitri manages a shaky nod, heart thumping heavily in his chest as his mind curves so sweetly around Claude’s words: _Dima_ , he’d said, like a lover’s prayer. “Yes, sir,” Dimitri says, before hastily amending, “Master.”

The smile that graces Claude’s mouth is wan and sharp, but Dimitri feels warmth rise behind his navel all the same. His heart flutters meanly, aggressively, and he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears; when his eye flutters shut, lost already in the sensation of _anticipation_ , he feels Claude’s weight dip from the bed. It reappears after only a moment, followed by the sharp sound of a cork popping from its bottle. There’s the rattle of a chain, and Dimitri feels his wrists affixed to the bed.

“You’re so good for me,” Claude murmurs. He’s never angry, not like this: this punishment is a farce, nothing more than a facade, and once it ends—once Claude’s spend is left cooling on Dimitri’s chest, once they’ve drifted into an easy, sore sleep beside the other—Claude will speak of how _frustrating_ that meeting was, how _insatiable_ and _heavy-handed_ Sir Langrid is. “I’m not sorry I stopped using you,” he’ll say, voice soft against Dimitri’s shoulder, “but I do wish you could still _scare_ them a little.” Dimitri will nod in agreement; Sir Langrid is, in fact, all of those things. Claude is so often right.

Dimitri opens easily on Claude’s fingers, pliant with praise and anticipation. The first finger is gentle, probing, over-slick and slippery against his hole. Claude curses and adds another finger once Dimitri eagerly sucks in the first, and by the time he’s got three buried in Dimitri’s ass, Dimitri is panting and whining against the sheets.

“Look at you, already so loose for me,” Claude says, heat buried in his words. His fingers are cruel and quick, over-clever, and they rub insistently at Dimitri’s swollen prostate. “I bet you could come like this. Couldn’t you? Would you come for me, just on my fingers? Just from being stretched like the whore you are—”

Dimitri bucks and whines, hole fluttering greedily around Claude’s fingers. Claude knows the answer: he’s done it before, dozens of times, and Dimitri is afraid he may be doing it again. “Please,” he stutters, his own voice unrecognizable through the tears that gather on his lashes. “I—I’m—”

Claude’s fingers withdraw, leaving Dimitri’s hole empty and desperate. “You’re not going to come,” Claude says, “until I do. Got it?”

Slowly, hesitantly, Dimitri nods. “Yes, master,” he says, swallowing around the thickness of his tongue.

“Good boy,” Claude says, already so sweet in the face of Dimitri’s subservience. Then, thoughtfully: “I would ask you to hold yourself open for me, but your hands are a bit preoccupied, aren’t they?” He laughs. “I can never win with you, Dimitri. I would love to keep you like this, you know—tied up and completely at my mercy, nothing but a hard cock for me to ride, a loose pussy for me to fuck—” Dimitri hears him groan, now opening himself up. “But sometimes...sometimes,” Claude says, conspiratorially, _confessionally_ , “I just want to feel those big, strong hands, you know?”

Dimitri nodes mutely, watching as Claude fingers himself open for Dimitri’s leaking cock. He wishes he could see it—wishes he could use his mouth, his tongue, wishes he could lick Claude open and feel spit dripping from his chin—but Claude is impatient, already two fingers deep and adding a third.

“Will I need a fourth?” he asks absently. His eyes find the hard ridge of Dimitri’s cock, straining and purple. “I— _mm_. I think as long as I go slowly, I—” Claude’s eyes roll back into his head, mouth falling open for a brief moment before he remembers himself. When his eyes open again, they land on Dimitri’s with startling intensity. “Oh, Dimitri, you look so good, how am I supposed to _wait_?”

When at last Claude is satisfied with his preparation, he turns his attention to the thick plug nestled on the pillows. Dimitri swallows audibly, face flushing as his cock drools lazily against his belly. “Master,” he stutters, wriggling against the sheets. “I’m—I’m not sure—”

“Oh, Dimitri,” Claude says, cutting him off. He pours oil over the plug, watching it slip down the polished sides and drip from the base. “You won’t come from this. I know you won’t. You’re far too eager for my approval, hm? Wanna keep me satisfied?”

Dimitri can only stammer his agreement as Claude begins to press the toy inside of him, struggling to adjust to the sharp flare plug. His body takes it eagerly, greedily, but he feels overfull, _stuffed_ , and his arms pull against his shackles as he whines. “Please,” he begs, half-mindless with the desire that builds so rapidly in his gut. He can feel an orgasm building below his navel, tightening in his balls, and each gentle push of the plug into his body only makes him shake more. By the time Claude has worked the widest part of it into him, Dimitri feels himself _quake_ , brought to tears by the way that Claude teases him. “ _Please_ —”

Claude’s voice is a reverent whisper. “You want it, Dimitri? Hm?” He fucks the plug inside of Dimitri with little flicks of his wrist, never pushing hard enough to drive it all the way in. Instead, he watches Dimitri’s swollen rim flutter wetly around the hard jut of it, the widest part, and laughs. His breath tickles the fevered flesh of Dimitri’s thighs. “Beg me, sweetheart.”

Fat tears already drip from Dimitri’s lashes, rolling down his temples to dampen his hair. “ _Please_ ,” he begs, voice cracking as he wrestles against the constraints. “Please, master, I—I need it, I’m—I promise I’ll be good, I won’t come, I’ll—”

Claude tuts and presses the plug the rest of the way in; Dimitri’s body swallows it eagerly, wildly, hips moving in tiny aborted thrusts as the toy jostles his prostate. “Look at you,” Claude breathes, pressing against the flared base with a curious thumb. He teases Dimitri like this, pressing the plug _in_ and in and in to an unpredictable rhythm. “Guess I should saddle up, hm?”

“Please,” Dimitri whispers, hoarse in his attempt to keep his orgasm at bay.

As Claude begins to mount him, thighs slung over either side of Dimitri’s hips, he pauses just above Dimitri’s cock. With one finger pressed sweetly against the slick head, he says, “What do we say, Dimitri?”

Dimitri’s heartbeat thunders in his ears, making it almost impossible to decipher Claude’s words. He blinks once, twice, lips parted in confusion until Claude’s words register. He flushes from the tips of his ears to his chest, eye darting away from where Claude has him pinned to the mattress. “I.” He swallows thickly. “Thank you, master.”

Claude’s eyes shine bright with admiration and delight as he preens above Dimitri’s body. “Very _good_ ,” he says, before taking Dimitri’s cock in hand. Dimitri nearly cries out at the sensation, finally breaking and yelling once Claude begins to _stroke_. His hand is still slick with oil, fingers squeezing hot and tight around Dimitri’s length, and Dimitri feels his balls tighten just enough to—

“No,” Claude says, and pulls his hand away. Lights dance across Dimitri’s vision, orgasm thundering just below the surface. It subsides, _barely_ , just enough for Dimitri to be able to blink up at Claude and nod. “Good boy. _Oh_ , you are so good to me, Dimitri. Sweetheart.”

Claude guides Dimitri’s cock to his hole, lining up before he takes a deep breath and begins to press down. The head is always the hardest: it’s thick and flared, insistently leaking precum as Claude’s body clenches tightly around it. Dimitri watches as Claude’s eyes roll back, eyelashes fluttering as Claude begins to work himself down with delicate, gentle thrusts. By the time he’s halfway down, unbearably tight and hot around Dimitri’s cock, Claude is panting with his hands pressed firmly against Dimitri’s chest, elbows quaking as they attempt to hold him upright.

“So big,” Claude groans, as he always does. There’s a whine laced through his voice, needled through and cinched tight. “So big, fuck, Dimitri—” He sucks his lower lip into his mouth as presses down, ass almost flush with Dimitri’s hips. “God, _fuck_ , I always think—always think it’ll get easier, but—”

He bottoms out and Dimitri _writhes_ , arms wrestling against the chains that keep him tied to the headboard. “ _Claude_ —”

It’s a testament to how far gone Claude is that he does no more to correct Dimitri than to clench tightly around him and say, through labored breaths, “You call me—call me _master_ , Dima—Dima—” He’s fucking himself in earnest now, starting with little swirls of his hips before he begins to bounce. The sound of their fucking is lewd enough, all wet slapping and wild moans, but when Claude reaches clumsily for Dimitri’s leash, Dimitri’s whole body flushes.

“Please,” Dimitri says, this game so familiar and rote from the past five years that he _knows_. “Please, Claude, I need it—Master—”

“I have to come first, sweetheart,” Claude says, breathless and cruel. He slams himself down onto Dimitri’s cock and tugs the chain taut, metal chiming brightly and drawing a flood of saliva to Dimitri’s mouth. He knows that sound, has been trained to react to it, and Claude knows—“I’m close, Dimitri, just a little bit more—can you do that? Fuck me like this, Dima, fuck that thick cock into me with your ass stuffed full—”

Dimitri does, clenching hard around the plug buried so deep in his ass that he feels himself drooling from the corner of his mouth. Claude takes him so well, so easily, small body opening up so perfectly for Dimitri’s cock, and if he could touch it he _would_ but his hands are tied to the bed, and—

Claude’s hand falls to his cock and begins to stroke, quick and messy and loud. “Dima,” he pants, “my Dima, sweetheart, my perfect little pet,” before spilling hot onto Dimitri’s heaving chest. “ _Fuck_ ,” he cries, still fucking himself in eager motions, “ _fuck_.” When Claude’s eyes reopen, they fall heavy on Dimitri’s stomach, his white-painted chest, and with a possessive smirk he drags a finger through the mess he’s made. “You look good like this, Dimitri.”

Dimitri whines, his orgasm so close he can feel it tearing at his guts. The heat is unbearable, especially once Claude’s entire hand begins to smear his spend across Dimitri’s burning flesh. “ _Please_ , Claude, you said—”

“I know, sweetheart.” Claude reaches back to grab at the toy in Dimitri’s ass, grasping the base and beginning to tug. “You wanna come like this? You’ve been so good, Dima, doing everything I asked…” Claude fucks him with the plug, pulling it from his hole just enough to catch at his swollen rim before shoving it back inside. “How does it feel, Dima? Being so full? Do you wish it was me, hm? Want your king to fill you up—”

By the time Dimitri’s orgasm begins to prickle in his gut, hot and yearning, he sees Claude’s hand wrap tightly around Dimitri’s leash. It’s the insinuation, the anticipation that pushes him over the edge, but—the electricity surges through his body with an overwhelming, blinding heat, and Dimitri feels himself roar against the wave of it. His orgasm crests over him with burning intensity, curling tight in his belly until it bursts and shatters and spills from his cock. He throws his head back and cries through it, tears slipping down his cheeks as Claude keeps fucking him with that godforsaken plug. By the time he settles, Claude has curled up next to him, having slipped from his body and now using Dimitri’s shoulder as a pillow. The plug stays nestled in Dimitri’s hole.

After a long moment of silence, broken only by Dimitri’s heavy breathing and the quiet sobs that shake from his chest, Claude says, “Thank you, Dimitri.”

The world feels hazy and overbright, so unreal in the face of Claude’s skin pressed to his. Dimitri grunts his acknowledgement and nuzzles Claude’s hair. “Your Majesty,” he murmurs, before placing a kiss to his king’s forehead.

Claude will clean them up in a moment, Dimitri knows, but in moments like this, they pretend. So much of Claude’s role as King is a performance, painstakingly crafted and beautifully performed, but—Claude had said, once, that he wondered if things could have been different. If Dimitri could have joined him as a peer, instead of as a rabid slave. Dimitri wonders, too, if those are the things Claude thinks about in moments like this: quiet moments, still moments, shielded from the Almyran court by little more than an oak door and silken sheets. He wonders if when Claude kisses him, first on the shoulder, the jaw, his ear—and then his lips, if Claude is thinking of the Dimitri he’d come to know at the Academy, all those years ago. It aches to consider—the idea that Claude may have fallen in love with Dimitri’s own performance.

He doesn’t ask, though. Instead, when Claude’s breathing stills beside him, when Claude’s mouth falls open to drool on his shoulder and his hand twitches idly against his hip, Dimitri nestles him close and stands watch. He made a promise, after all: _I am yours_ , he’d said, when Claude had first taken him to bed.

It is a promise he intends to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> i have a [twitter](https://twitter.com/nishtabel)


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